


Muskets and Roses

by Calleva



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-08 04:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 19,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15922598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calleva/pseuds/Calleva
Summary: Paris in the dying days of Louis XIII's reign.... Intrigues and plots abound while the Musketeers' rivalry with the Red Guard is as intense as ever. Juliette Bonnard, a young seamstress, arrives from the country to work at the Palace under the watchful eye of Constance d'Artagnan. Caught up in a riot, she meets Captain Marcheaux of the local militia who sees her home in safety, but Madame d'Artagnan warns he's not to be trusted. As the relationship deepens, both Constance and Governor Feron strongly disapprove and try to stop it. Paris is on the brink of chaos.Marcheaux, caught up in the conflict, sees all he has come to love taken from him. Grief stricken and thirsting for revenge, he falls in with the brutal and psychotic Grimaud. Preparing to have an innocent woman flogged, he is told "After this there'll be no going back".Can Georges Marcheaux find redemption?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Felizarda](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Felizarda).



Sounds of shouting had started in the market square. Juliette pushed her way forward to see what it was this time. A fight had started over food and Governor Feron's Red Guards had stepped in to stop it; they used a lot of muscle. Juliette thought of her brothers, how they loved to appear tougher than they were. Without the sombre, rather sinister, uniform, these Red Guards would look just like the young lads they were. 

It didn't take long to break up, the Red Guards made up in superior weapons what they lacked in age. Already men were being led into a queue to spend a cooling night in the cells. It was then that Juliette noticed the guard on the chestnut horse. He had dark eyes and light brown hair, almost the colour of his horse's coat, and wore a smart black and red jacket with double lapels. He appeared to be in command.

Just as she was watching him, a man from the line broke loose and ran in Juliette's direction, towards the onlookers. She wasn't quick enough to dodge away and he slammed into her side, faltering clumsily while the guards caught him easily and took him back.  
"You all right, Mademoiselle?" The man on the horse looked in Juliette's direction. His voice was gentle and concerned but she had heard about the savagery of the Red Guard. She hesitated; most people avoided having any more contact with these people than necessary. To her surprise he jumped from his horse and approached her. "I'm sorry about that, lady..."  
"You should be," Said an old woman standing near Juliette, "the young lady was almost knocked over."

Juliette was suddenly aware that her clothing, neat and clean and new, marked her out as a person of some standing. She wasn't used to this. "I'm really all right, thank you for asking." She looked up into the dark eyes of the young Red Guard captain. On hearing her clear voice, he bowed slightly and said "You must let me take you home. I can see you're still shaken. We do try to keep the streets safe, I'm sorry that this time we failed." 

Juliette looked around, feeling someone's eyes on her. Sure enough, there was her boss Constance d'Artagnan frowning at her in warning. It had been a nice day, the sun was out and Juliette had simply wanted to walk to the market to buy some fresh fruit on her first afternoon off in her new job. She decided to trust her instincts and go with the young man. What could he do to her anyway, in this public place? The crowd parted for them as they walked away.  
"I live at the Palace," Juliette told him, "it's not far. You're Red Guard, aren't you?"  
"I am its Captain - Georges Marcheaux - you must be new here. Where are you from?"  
Juliette hesitated. She knew that Constance would not be far behind, and Madame had told her bad things about these Red Guards and their boss, Governor Feron. "You must not believe all you hear about us," Marcheaux said with a boyish smile. Juliette shot a quick glance at him - his eyes had been brown when she first saw him and now they were green. Was that possible? Juliette dropped a small curtsy, "Juliette Bonnard, from Auvers, about half a day's ride from here. I just started work at the Palace. One of my cousins is a footman and found me work. I'm not used to the city, it's so big...... I suppose you are Parisien."  
"No..." he faltered slightly, "Governor Feron is my patron and appointed me. I suppose you could say you and I are both _'étrangers'_ , strangers, in this place."

They had reached the Palace gates and the entrance which Juliette used as it was the nearest way to the servants' quarters. She turned to him, "Thank you, Monsieur le Capitaine," and with a little flourish of her hand "Here's my home!" 

For a moment he looked slightly puzzled, then saw the joke and his face brightened. Juliette realised that he wasn't used to such light-heartedness and felt suddenly sad for him. He bowed and gathered his horse's reins, "Welcome to Paris, mademoiselle, I hope you will soon have a better impression of our city - and of my men too." he mounted his horse and looked down at her; their eyes held: brown - green? perhaps a little of both, she decided as he waved to her and rode off with a flourish that she could tell was all for her. She sighed.

"You had me worried for a moment, Julie, I hope he behaved himself." Madame d'Artagnan drew alongside her as she went through the gates.  
"He was a perfect gentleman," Juliette replied, "it's a puzzle. He's nothing like the person you've described to me. Do you happen to know where he's from, originally?"  
"Afraid I don't. Some sewer, most likely. Look, whatever he's told you, be careful. He's not to be trusted, or any of his men."


	2. Chapter 2

"You want something, you take it. No one will give it to you." Feron's words rang in his mind as he rode away from that young woman from Auvers. She'd taken him by surprise with her cheerful wit. She'd probably been daydreaming in that crowd and got run into. She wouldn't be used to the pace of life here, or the need for constant watchfulness. Something about her manner suggested a different way of looking at life, and it briefly confused him.

Want... take.... those were the rules he had been trained to live by. Life was a battle to come out on top. Those years at the orphanage, the hunger, the lack of warmth - not the cold, but the lack of human kindness, made him form a wall around his heart. Marcheaux' parents had died when he was small, and the local notary had become his official guardian. Not caring about a labourer's child, he had placed the boy in a local orphanage and promptly forgotten about him. Georges had survived by learning to fist fight and attaching himself to the biggest bully in the place. Marcheaux had followed him around, doing errands, until he'd been accepted into the group. Then the dark stranger had appeared and the orphanage became a memory he'd tried to forget.

He owed Feron everything, from his rescue from the orphanage to the smart uniform he now wore. It had been Feron who, impressed by his good looks and ability to fist fight, had selected him and brought him to Paris, where the orphan boy was tutored in everything from court etiquette to the use of weapons. He lost his accent and developed a taste for good wine. There had been other protégés but only Marcheaux had lasted. Having been orphaned young, he barely remembered his parents, Feron had been the only father he'd really known and he had come to love him, this strangely remote character who relished watching him beating up new recruits, but who also loved fine wines and good conversation. And good-looking young men like himself.

Despite that, there had never been any suggestion of more. Feron was, perhaps, too unwell and he would have recognised that Marcheaux wasn't interested. Feron had actively encouraged him to seek out young women, but Georges wasn't a womaniser. He hovered beside his benefactor as Feron entertained important guests in the bath house, plying them with exotic food and drinks, and women. Deep down Georges knew that Feron despised these men, considered their weaknesses as something to be exploited. There would be time, perhaps, to find a wife for himself, but not while Feron needed him. Only Georges knew the amount of poppy oil to add to his boss' wine, how much powder to put into his pipe to guarantee oblivion from pain. Only he knew how to massage the older man's spine to ease his agony.  
"My hands are numb" Feron was often frustrated by his weakness.  
"It will pass," Georges would reassure him as he pushed into the right spot. He gave his patron and master that comfort that only months of practice could bring, while Feron gave him protection and in his own way, a kind of love. Like everyone else Georges had come to know well, Feron was incapable of giving much, but there was a bond between the two of them and Georges was proud of this. The King's half-brother valued him, the orphan from nowhere.


	3. Chapter 3

From the window, Juliette could see the long avenue of trees. Closer were the formal knot gardens and fountains. She had never seen so much land set aside for leisure - in her village the fields contained rows of cabbages, anything that could be eaten or stored for the winter months. Flowers were grown in old barrels or window boxes. Yet here she could look out on huge tracts of land planted with flowers, solely to delight the heart and feed the soul. It was all so beautiful, like being inside a fairy tale where she was a seventeen-year-old peasant girl who turned out to be a princess. Juliette had to pinch herself back to reality, it was enough of a wonder that a village girl could ever live in a palace. And they fed her! The not-hungry feeling was still something she relished, so she had much to be grateful for. At the moment she was working for Madame d'Artagnan, but anything was possible if she proved herself useful. Most of her tasks were connected with the Queen's wardrobe. Juliette's sewing skill had already been praised as her repairs were almost invisible. She could dab off a stain until it was practically invisible - and she could even make herself invisible when needed - an asset in a servant. 

Would she have chosen this work if she had the choice of anything? Perhaps not - servants have to be the eyes and ears of their employers, and Juliette was a self-confessed dreamer. She'd always been that way. As a very young child and the only girl, she had been the pet of the family. Her dreaminess harboured a vivid imagination, funny and serious in turns, and she had amused her mother by her childish flights of fancy. The idyll had been too short - Clothilde Bonnard's early death had taken more than her own life. Pierre Bonnard seemed to lose all interest in everything, and his asthma grew worse. The family had moved to Auvers in the hope that his health would improve, and he had found work as a clerk to the local landowner. Juliette ran the household as well as she could, helped by kindly neighbours who, poor themselves, helped now and again by gifts of food. Neither of Juliette's parents had known poverty in youth and living the rustic life did not sit well with her father. She knew he felt shame at his inability to provide. He had received a good education, while his two elder sons had to work as labourers. Juliette had fared a little better; a nearby convent educated local girls as a means of helping them gain honest work and they were happy to teach a gentleman's daughter who, in time, could become a senior servant in a great house. It would be good work to have, since high-status servants often had servants of their own and so the sisters schooled Juliette in the grace and poise that such a person would need. Her father, she knew, slipped them small sums of money he could ill-afford, out of pride. Juliette had to work hard and do her best to be worthy of so much sacrifice, but it was a struggle. Deep in her heart, she knew she would never be a really good servant, she hadn't the temperament. However, during her education, the nuns had discovered she had skill with a needle, making her even more employable. She resolved to send as much from her earnings as possible to her father, along with a cheery letter telling him about Paris and life in a Palace, even if one were not a princess.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of an angry female voice. "If I catch you in my quarters again I will have you arrested. Now get out!"

Queen Anne's voice was raised in a manner Juliette had not heard before. She popped her head through the doorway of the little store room. As she did so she caught sight of the young Red Guard captain hurrying along the long corridor. His expressive face was frozen in humiliation but his brown eyes briefly flickered over her. She thought he'd rush by but suddenly he stopped and looked back in the direction of the Queen. Juliette followed his gaze and noted that Constance was disappearing into the Queen's apartment. He turned to her.

"Monsieur le Capitaine," Juliette said, "We seem fated to meet in times of trouble." To her surprise he moved towards her and rested a hand against the door frame. "Mademoiselle Bonnard," he gave her a brief bow, "it does seem that way, doesn't it?"

Juliette gave a short giggle. She had a feeling that Madame would disapprove of her speaking to someone who had just been told to leave. She had felt so sorry for him, hearing him scolded like that. "Not been in any trouble I hope?" She shot him a conspiratorial grin.  
"Well no one loves us."  
"It was kind of you to take me home the other day. I'm still not used to this city and its ways."  
"I imagine Auvers is very different. You enjoy it here? They don't work you too hard?"  
"Oh no, not at all. Madame d'Artagnan is very good to work for, she explains everything in detail so I can just get on and do it. I mostly care for the Queen's clothes. My mother died when I was small and my father had me taught by nuns. I could sew and mend so they also taught me lace making and delicate work - which is how I got this job. I still can't believe that I live in a palace - it's strange when one has been used to the sight of fields and mud. Here I wake up and am surrounded by all this grandeur and there are gardens with flowers - I never realised how much I love flowers. There is always food on the table too. I imagine you don't know any other life." she blushed and thought to herself how stupid and ignorant she must sound. To her surprise he smiled back at her. "It must be very new for you then. But you must take care when you are out in the city - pickpockets and thieves wait for someone just like you to pounce on!"  
"I don't go out much yet on my own. Madame went with me the other day, but we had got separated. I'm so lucky I can live here and get an afternoon off every week. They treat us well."  


Marcheaux's eyes narrowed in thought, then he said, "I hope your work is interesting for you. Not the same thing every day."  
"Oh no, it all depends on what Her Majesty is doing.... she might need to wear something formal, or she may just want to ride her horse, in which case I make ready her habit. But I hate to bore you - my work is so new to me and I am enjoying it."  
"So what did her Majesty need today, for instance?"  
"It's a fairly ordinary day, no special guests, so a plain court dress, but she likes it to have plenty of movement for playing with the Dauphin. Have you seen him? He's a sweet child."

Her new friend gave a tight lipped smile, "We don't have much contact with the Royal Family, our job is to keep law and order in the city. I'm glad you are happy here. I think the nuns taught you well..." He took her hand in his and kissed it. "I mustn't be seen here, or you'll get into trouble. Farewell, M'selle Bonnard, I hope we meet again - in a happier setting!"

Juliette smiled at the shared joke and decided his eyes really were a kind of green.


	4. Chapter 4

"So what did Marcheaux want?"  
Constance was standing in the doorway of the work room. Juliette looked up from the torn doublet she was repairing.  
"And that isn't for you to mend. It is my husband's - I was going to see to it myself. You need to get on with your actual work."  
"It's all ready. I thought it would be helpful to start on this. I'm sorry, Madame."  
Constance sighed gently and smiled, "I'm not angry with you, that's helpful - you do such lovely work. It was you Marcheaux was talking to, wasn't it? I know you are a bit friendly with him, but he's not someone to get close to. He's spying on the Queen for Feron, for one thing. And he beats up people - new recruits, prisoners, anyone Feron sets him onto. The Palace is a big place and must seem lonely, but he's not the one to trust."  
"Why would he want to spy on Her Majesty? She has no secrets."  
"That's not for us to know, we are only servants. Feron has his spies everywhere, and he hates the Musketeers. I'm just asking you to be careful and don't tell Marcheaux anything about Palace business."  
"Of course I won't, Madame."

Constance thought for a moment then said, "Well if you've finished that jacket you might as well come with me to the Garrison. I've got to take across some clean clothing and a bit of mending - they go through their things so fast, tears, rips, you wouldn't believe. And the dirt! It's as if they roll in the mud for fun."

Juliette thought to herself as they hurried across the city to the Garrison. Georges (as she already thought of him) had asked her about her work - it was a seemingly innocent question, but he could have been gathering information, and she had volunteered that the Queen was at home that day. Well, if this was really all the gossip he wanted, she couldn't see how it could hurt. The Governor of Paris was, after all, an important figure. Security was something he would take seriously.

Although she didn't know him well, the thought of ignoring Georges pained her. She'd have to let him know that she couldn't be seen talking to him, so he'd understand. In reality she had been dreaming about being in his arms - what would that feel like? She'd never been in anyone's arms. It wasn't part of a young lady's education as determined by the sisters. They had trained her to be a superior maidservant, teaching her to modulate her speech, to sit with her hands folded in her lap, to walk gracefully and to be discreet. Well perhaps she had failed in that last one, but the others caused her no problems. 

Her thoughts were interrupted when they entered the Garrison - it was a hive of busyness, men practising their sword skills, brushing horses, going up and down the wooden stairs to the rooms above where Captain Tréville had his office.

Constance showed her where the fresh clothing was stored and then took her on a brief tour of the Musketeers' base which ended with a quick cup of ale in the yard with some of the young fighters. They were legendary of course and Juliette had heard of their exploits even in Auvers. She gazed in awe as Constance introduced her to her husband and was almost breathless with excitement when Porthos sat at the table opposite her and asked her how she was settling in. For someone so famous, he seemed very humble and , well, just like any other person one might meet. Except that he was one of France's most distinguished soldiers. Once she had overcome her shyness, she found him easy to talk to. 

But they couldn't linger too long and too soon it was time to go back to the Palace. Juliette could think of nothing but Musketeers as they headed home. "Next time you visit them, you must meet Captain Tréville." Constance told her. Juliette gaped, 'next time'? What an honour and a delight for a lowly servant girl to be introduced to such men, and treated so honourably by them! She could not wait to write home to tell her father.


	5. Chapter 5

"You did well to gain this woman's trust." Feron sipped on his goblet and savoured the rich red Bordeaux wine. "I trust you'll have her completely in your power before too long. Do you like her, Georges?"  
Marcheaux nodded, "She's nice enough, and I think she likes me. She's up from the country and doesn't know anyone."  
"Perfect. Seduce her. I want to know everything about the Queen, especially the men she meets. The maid will tell you anything once you have her heart. I don't care what you have to promise her.. You might as well get some more experience yourself - two benefits..." he chuckled to himself and took another quaff of wine. 

Marcheaux left the Governor with mixed emotions. It had been one thing to tell Feron about his success in finding a source of information within the Palace, but another to conspire for her virtue. He found that he didn't want to hurt this woman, she was so young - about sixteen or seventeen? - and she had such a cheerful, joyous nature; he liked how she seemed to draw him into the joke, like a conspirator. He had no wish to deceive Juliette Bonnard when she had been so open with him - he had never met a true _ingénue _before. Something within him wanted to protect her, so she would remain happily innocent of the darker side of men.__

____

But to admit to Feron that he liked someone smacked of weakness. Perhaps there would be a way.... he might be able to get her to talk without toying with her emotions? He loved Feron and owed him everything, but he could not expect the older man to understand. Feron had had a difficult life himself with the constant struggles that a bastard son must endure, and he was now in almost constant pain. 

____

 

____

His next mission in the Palace grounds was of a secret nature, but he would linger and see if he could find out anything. But.... he'd enjoyed his two meetings with Mam'selle Bonnard, and he found himself hoping he'd run into her again. That demon of a boss - Constance - might be an impediment. He was fairly sure she missed nothing. There had been a time when he had a fancy to her, but she had made it very clear she wasn't interested. For a while his fantasies had been about dark hair and blue eyes.... lately these had been replaced by golden hair and brown eyes. Juliette may only be a servant but she spoke and moved like a lady. There was a fairylike quality to her, and one did not harm fairies. They were like butterflies, best set free and allowed to live on the wind. 

____

He shook his head..... this would not do.

____


	6. Chapter 6

Juliette lingered in the garden. The King was hosting a lavish party for his son and the Queen was resting. No one needed a seamstress at present. She had a few moments to herself without feeling guilty. It was a sunny day and she loitered in the small garden where the servants were permitted to walk. Never had she seen so many flowers as at the Palace and they gladdened her heart. She bent over to sniff a white rose, newly opened. If she ever had a home of her own, she mused, it would have a garden full of flowers. Her village neighbours had grown vegetables, and these were surely more useful, but perhaps one day she would be able to buy them in the market instead? Her heart longed for beauty and freedom. She wasn't ungrateful for her job, but she thought longingly of soft clothes, leisure and gentle comforts - nothing too fine; grandeur she could do without. What would it be like to own her own home, with pots of flowers by the door, a yard with a well? She saw herself feeding chickens, tending scented herbs and sewing cushions and wall hangings. There would be a niche for her to read in, with a dog by her feet and perhaps a cradle too? Her heart lurched at the thought of it all. And some women had this life! How blessed they must be, and how far away it seemed from her own existence!  
"Lovely flowers." A voice behind her broke her reverie just as her thoughts were turning to Georges Marcheaux. It was a tall gentleman, with a bearing that implied command. "I wonder if you could direct me to the King's apartment. I've to deliver a secret message from d'Artagnan." He studied the rose for a moment and then snapped its stem, tucking it into his pocket. "Mine," he whispered.  
Juliette thought for a moment. It was true, d'Artagnan hadn't been at the Garrison, he was probably on some important work for the King. "Come with me," she said moving purposefully towards the Palace buildings.

They reached the foot of the staircase and Juliette said "Up there, on the right, through the double doors and you'll find a servant to help you. I don't know any more as I've never been there."  
"You've been most helpful. The king thanks you."

Juliette suddenly found herself in a vice-like grip, one hand over her mouth, and she was being dragged outside again, "I will shoot you through the head if you shout or struggle," her companion hissed into her ear as he half-carried her away from the side door. "I'm not going to hurt you if you stay calm." Juliette's eyes widened but she made no attempt to struggle and went limp, making it harder for her kidnapper to move her. He was strong though, and her weight was nothing to him as he made his way across the terrace. A few paces further, he pulled open the door to an out building that she briefly noticed contained gardening tools. Before she could think further about her possible fate, he had struck her on the side of the head and laid her unconscious body on the cold stone floor. With a strange smile he placed the rose beside her head, and then he locked the door and went in search of his chambers.


	7. Chapter 7

"There's an intruder in the Palace and the Queen is missing!" 

Marcheaux had not expected to overhear this news as he moved stealthily towards the gates. At least no one had yet found the body of the dead Dutchman which he had just dumped behind a low hedge - Feron and his messy tasks! Many of the Palace servants were outside, searching and they would find the body before long. Marcheaux's immediate thoughts turned to Juliette - was she safe? And when did he start thinking of her as Juliette? 

"What are you doing here, Red Guard?"  
"Helping to search for the Queen..." Marcheaux scanned the buildings, noted the activity in the grounds and decided to scout round first before entering. Juliette had mentioned the Queen playing with the Dauphin, which is perhaps what she was doing, quite innocently. He hurried past the rose gardens, not noticing the early summer display and headed towards the Summer House and the stables. It was not likely that a junior servant would come to any harm, he must just concentrate on finding the Queen and the credit this would bring for the Red Guards. 'You should never leave anything unchecked' Feron's words came back to him but he very nearly ignored the group of outhouses, so purpose-built that they were almost unnoticeable. The key was in one of the doors so it was an easy task to check inside and move on.

One small dusty window was all there was to let in light, but he could make out a small figure lying on the floor in the semi-darkness. Could the Queen have been left here and if so, why? He stooped over the figure and realised to his shock that this wasn't Her Majesty but Juliette, and she had clearly been stunned. He saw the rose beside her head - how typical of her, he thought, to have been enjoying the flowers.  
"Mam'selle!" he patted her gently, speaking urgently to her, hoping she wasn't badly hurt.  
"Mhm... what.... oh!" Juliette slowly regained consciousness and let Georges help her sit.  
"What happened?" Marcheaux asked softly, on impulse placing the rose into her hand. She looked at it thoughtfully for a moment.  
"A man.... he said he was from d'Artagnan..... I thought he was a soldier. He had a pistol - he's dangerous. I told him where to find His Majesty's apartment... It's all my fault, I could have got the King killed. I thought he was...."  
"Don't upset yourself," Marcheaux thought quickly; this dreamy girl from the country would naturally believe anyone who seemed plausible.  
"You found me.... I could have been hours and hours here. Odd that he left this rose..."  
"I expect he meant you to be found, the key was in the lock and he only lightly stunned you so he probably is an old soldier."  
"Maybe the rose was his way of saying sorry." She fingered the now limp flower.  
"Hmm.... " Marcheaux thought he would like to make this man sorry, but he helped Juliette onto her feet instead. "You all right? How's your head?"  
"It spins a bit but I'm fine, I think. Oh Georges, he said he'd kill me if I shouted...." And she was suddenly shaking and he was holding her in his arms, reassuring her, stroking her bright hair and catching a faint scene of lavender mixed with the rose that was being crushed between them. She raised her head "I'm glad it was you who found me..... How did you know where to look?"  
"I'm trained to check everywhere, and we were moving from the outside further in, no one was interested in the outbuildings... I'm only glad you're safe. My little _paysanne_ , you must not trust everyone you meet - and certainly not everyone who gives you flowers."

Juliette nestled against him thinking that at last she knew what it felt like to be in his arms. He was strong and it made her feel safe. He hadn't minded that she called him Georges. Then she had a thought. She must tell him what Constance had said... she looked up into his brown-green eyes but before she could open her mouth, his own was covering hers. The rose fell to the floor as she put her arms around him. 

A sound from the door caused them to break apart, Marcheaux had left it slightly open and now one of the Palace guards was standing in the doorway. "The intruder attacked one of the servants and locked her inside, I found her safe but very shaken." Marcheaux explained.  
"Well it's all taken care of now. The Queen is well, one of her Musketeers shot the intruder as he was threatening her. Seems he was a nutter escaped during the Châtelet breakout. Thought he was the King of France. Thank heavens we don't get this kind of drama every day."

"Yes thank heavens," Marcheaux agreed as he followed Juliette out of the outhouse. Spotting something on the floor he briefly hesitated, then stooped and picked it up. He slipped the rose into his pocket.


	8. Chapter 8

Why? oh why did that annoying man have to walk in on them just then wondered Juliette as she walked beside Marcheaux through the gardens towards the palace gates.  
"That man committed no end of offences," She said gaily, "to murder a man, enter the Palace and then lie about his reasons - then to go to the King's own chamber unnoticed and go through his things... and to kidnap the Queen and threaten to kill her; that's six, and finally the crime of stealing one of the royal flowers. I'm sure it's not allowed."  
"One might forgive him that since he gave it away." said Marcheaux thoughtfully. "I come here sometimes with the Governor when he's visiting his brother. It's nice to see it all in bloom."   
"It was my fault it got picked - I was smelling it and that man snapped it off. I suppose if he was mad he believed it was his. Oh....." She remembered what she had to tell him.  
"What is it?"  
"I have to tell you something, and I don't know how...."  
On impulse, he slowed his pace and took a side path leading to some tall hedges laid out in a kind of maze. Juliette realised they were unseen here and she could speak freely. She explained what Constance had said. Her voice faltered and she added, "and now you have rescued me, and we are friends anyway.... that can't change, can it?"  
"No it can't," and again she was in his arms and he was kissing her.  
"So will you tell Feron?" she asked at length. "I can't discuss Her Majesty with you so if I'm to be your spy, I'm not much use. They hardly tell me what they are going to do anyway."  
Marcheaux sighed, "Even if it's just not much, it would give me a reason to see you. He likes to know what his brother and sister in law are doing."  
"Then why not simply ask? Today it's simple. Queen Anne was seized by a madman and it must at least have caused the lace at her wrist to snag, to say nothing of the grass stains on the hem of her dress and I will have to fix both. There, tell him that." She shot him an impish smile. He pulled her towards him again and buried his face in her hair. This was the kind of girl he could see himself marrying, he realised, if only she had more money. Feron would never understand.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well if they hadn't banished you from the Palace and held my men at a distance, this fracas would never have happened!" Philippe Feron leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. A wave of pain hit him and then subsided. "As for the servant girl, I am disappointed, Georges, in that you don't seem to have enjoyed her much, but perhaps she wasn't worth it."

Marcheaux said nothing, the image of a butterfly came into his mind and a soft voice "we are friends... and that can't change, can it?" He wasn't even sure she would give herself to him. She may have a dreamy, happy nature, but she had seen right through his questions. She wasn't a fool.  
"There is no point," he said dully, "and I'm not sure she'd give in. We are friends."  
"Friends, eh?" Feron inhaled deeply and then gave a long sigh, "Well, well... so the pretty little thing has enchanted you. I warned you Georges about the dangers of becoming soft. I will expect you to put her from your mind and get on with your work. We have important tasks ahead. So I want to hear no more about _la paysanne."_

How quickly Feron had gauged his feelings, thought Marcheaux as he left his boss. It wasn't even as though he himself had realised how much he was beginning to care for the little country girl with the sweet-smelling hair. Feron was right, she was a distraction. If he wasn't going to seduce her and get it over with, he must simply 'put her from his mind'. To Feron, love meant carnal desire and something that men indulged as a matter of course. On Marcheaux' eighteenth birthday Governor Feron had arranged for an older Red Guard to take him to an upmarket whorehouse to 'make a man of him'. Georges smiled grimly at the memory; it had been surprisingly civilised and he had been treated with respect rather than amusement, but he had come to think of that evening, pleasurable as it was, as lacking in something. He would prefer to choose his own lovers but these had been rare in the following months and for some reason he found himself not wanting Feron to know about that side of his life. Having grown up in an institution devoid of the warmth of family life, Georges had learned to build a protective wall around his feelings. He preferred to deal with the practical things; trusting people was too risky. He craved independence, to be in control of his life and never again be at the mercy of others. To that end, he saved every sou he could. One day, perhaps, he would have a home that was entirely his. He couldn't imagine what it would look like but he would have one someday. And he would share it with another - someone who might combine the pleasures of that expensive establishment with a tenderness for himself. The little maid from Auvers would, he felt, be the sort of companion he would like to have. He found her easy to be with, and he liked the way she had reacted so trustingly to him when he had found her in the palace outhouse. Feron might sneer at her rustic background, but she wasn't ignorant or coarse. No doubt King's brother would regard him as weak if he knew about his romantic encounters with _'la paysanne'._ Marcheaux shook his head; there was no time to think of his future right now. He must put her out of his mind and find some heads to bang together in the town. 

For the next couple of weeks he threw himself into his work, keeping a watch on his thoughts. He even managed to taunt d'Artagnan about his 'wildcat' wife, laughing about putting her on a leash. He would conquer this weakness and prove to his boss that he was strong and capable. There was something unmanly about being lovesick, he decided.


	10. Chapter 10

It was surprising how quickly the novelty of living in a palace could wear off. Juliette felt she was living in her memories more and more since she realised that Georges was ignoring her. She'd passed the Red Guard barracks several times in the hope of seeing him, and when she had, he had simply smiled briefly at her and ridden on. Not a word of greeting or even a wave but a cold little smile that gave away nothing. Perhaps it was her punishment for not telling him enough about the Queen's activities.

Well if he didn't care enough for her otherwise, she must just forget him. He wasn't worth it. Yet, without that little hope of seeing him at random moments, she realised that her work soon turned to drudgery. She got up in the morning and faced a lonely day of errands with no sweetness that the thought of him would bring. She saw him only rarely, but still the possibility of a meeting gave more meaning to her day. Somehow she must hide her depression because Madame would notice, and that would be unprofessional. Juliette thought of her father in Auvers, having struggled as a lowly clerk, doing thankless work day after day just so the family could live. But at least he had his children to keep him company and distract him.

A visit to the garrison would help, she supposed, and it was easy enough to ask Madame to take her along when she next had to stop by. There was always so much going on there, it was difficult to feel lonely or downcast when the Musketeers were around.  
"You haven't met Captain Tréville," Constance had reminded her and then with a wink, "and Porthos will be pleased to see you. You get along well with him, don't you?"

Juliette nodded, that was indeed true. Porthos made her smile and think of her brothers. He'd had a hard life but he never seemed sorry for himself.

Captain Tréville was friendly enough but he wasn't especially at ease talking to a palace seamstress. Juliette noticed how focused he was on the training, watching the men intently as they practised their sword skills. He was in some ways a lonely figure too, but one with great honour, having served France with distinction. Juliette didn't think she had served France with anything like honour - she had almost got the Queen killed, hadn't she?  
"Penny for them," Porthos winked at her across the bench table in the courtyard. Juliette fingered her leather tankard and smiled shyly. If only she could confide in him! He must have caught her faraway look because he said, "Paris isn't an easy place to make a home in, but give it time, Julie, and you'll find it is worth it."  
"I suppose so - I don't know many people yet." She sighed. He nodded, "It takes a while to make friends, but you're always welcome to come by with Constance."

Porthos thought that in some ways Juliette reminded him of himself at one time. She wouldn't have known the harshness of the Court of Miracles of course, but she was going to have to make her own way, and that is never easy when you don't have many friends. On impulse, he walked to the entrance gates with the two women to see them off personally. Juliette was grateful for his gallantry. There was something so likeable about this blunt soldier, he had a cheerful manner which restored her own mood.  
"Good bye and thanks for the ale!" She paused, turned back and waved to him as she and Madame left the garrison.

In the street outside, Marcheaux, riding past, heard her voice and turned in his saddle to watch the scene. Juliette looked happy in the company of that Musketeer - she had clearly forgotten him, so if a woman could put love longing aside, surely a man could? Marcheaux thought wistfully that forgetting her was proving difficult. The very sound of her voice had taken him unawares and he realised how much he had missed her. Governor Feron had promised that he would get over her easily enough. What was that phrase from the English playwright that everyone was talking about, love was just 'a lust of the blood and a permission of the will'? That was it. There was something of truth about that. He wasn't yet in a position to find a woman to be serious about, and who knows, in time he would surely meet someone more suited to his position in life? 


	11. Chapter 11

"I have had death on my mind lately, so I have decided to make you an early bequest." Feron wound up the scroll, twisted in his armchair and handed it to Marcheaux. The older man's face looked suddenly gray in the firelight, and Marcheaux wondered if his health was failing. "It's not very much, but your assistance and loyalty over the last few years have made my work so much easier. It was a hunting lodge in the forest, but these days it's on the very edge of the city though the forest is still there, so you have the benefit of fresh air and the convenience of the city. I'm leaving you a small allowance but don't spend it all on wine and wenches because it is to cover the cost of the two servants I retain for its upkeep. When I'm gone, it will be your retreat, which you will need, and the place you can take a wife to. I don't need to mention the importance of marrying sensibly, do I? No, I thought not. Find someone with money settled on her and you can have a decent life, whoever is governor after me."

"I don't know what to say...." Marcheaux stammered, "it's very kind of you."  
"I suggest you visit it first and save your gratitude until afterwards. I don't use it very often and it will need some improvement. You can use your stipend from the Red Guard for that, assuming you haven't spent it all on bad ale and wild women".

Marcheaux registered the familiar taunt that Feron often made at him. In truth, Feron had no idea how Marcheaux spent his free time since he never spoke of it. He had little leisure anyway, and he was saving his earnings. 

"Sit with me and share some wine, I think we should celebrate." Feron poured a second goblet and handed it to Marcheaux.

Marcheaux never had a lot of trivial conversation, which is one reason why Feron liked him. As the younger man savoured the wine - Feron knew he enjoyed wine - he gazed thoughtfully into the firelight. Feron studied the younger man's face. People thought of Marcheaux as a cold fish, but he didn't think this was true. An orphan with few friends seldom lets down his guard. Feron regarded Marcheaux as a sort of son, a good-looking one. The Red Guard captain had a kind of ruggedness - nothing coarse, naturally - but with unblemished skin partly covered by a goodly growth of well-trimmed beard. His large expressive eyes were that fascinating hazel colour that seemed to change from brown to green depending on the light and his mood. No doubt some dreary little _bourgeoise_ would land him and wear down his spirit with her drab domesticity but in the meantime he, Feron, could enjoy this boy-man a little while longer. How long? He'd had a foreboding that death was near, so he would organise matters first, beginning with this beautiful boy who had served him so well.

 

Marcheaux drank two goblets of wine - in reality he was anxious to get away and examine the document that contained the details of the house that was now his. He had wanted to ask Feron but knew the King's brother would despise him for his curiosity. How strange the aristocracy was! Pretending to be uninterested in worldly matters while all the time obsessed with them. Feron was lonely and in pain, and the least Marcheaux could do was to keep him company until he became tired and asked for his poppy drops before ascending to bed.

Finally, alone in the elegant room, Marcheaux opened the scroll. He was to receive the property of La Roseraie, near Saint-Germain together with its pasture, gardens, outbuildings, stabling and well. He thought hard - Saint-Germain was west of Paris, south of Auvers.... Why did he have to think about her, suddenly? Was it because of the name of the lodge, the 'rose garden'? 

Whatever Feron had said, Marcheaux knew at once that when he visited it, he could not go alone. She must come as well.


	12. Chapter 12

Wednesday afternoons were her time off so the mornings always dragged. Juliette was coming up the back staircase with a small pile of ironing all ready for the Queen's wardrobe. She hummed tunelessly to herself and wondered how she would spend that afternoon. Take a walk in the surrounding streets, find a market and spend a _sou_ or two, take a book to a sheltered corner of the servants' quarters and escape for a few hours? Perhaps one of her brothers would visit? André had expressed a wish to join one of the militia units - she hoped it wouldn't be the Red Guard, in case she had to see _him_. She'd done well to put him out of her mind lately.

Just then one of the footmen met her at the top of the stairs and silently handed her a note. Juliette tucked it into her sleeve and delivered the clean clothes, then she took herself into the little store room where she used to daydream.

The writing on the front was not familiar, so it couldn't be from home. There was a seal but the wax had run and she couldn't make it out. As she broke open the letter, she wondered if the unreadable seal was deliberate and her heart began to turn over. Yes, indeed, it was from _him_. And he wanted to see her.

She should discard the note and ignore it. He knew today was her afternoon off and he was probably waiting for her outside the gates nearest her quarters, where he'd taken her on the first day they'd met. So she should either stay indoors or leave via a different entrance. The note was extremely courteous, almost formal, addressing her as 'vous'. It certainly did not hint at anything indiscreet. He simply asked if she might be so kind as to meet him outside the Palace gates.

He wasn't dressed in his Red Guard uniform, just a simple shirt and breeches with his black boots. His chestnut hair shone almost golden in the summer sun. How different he looked out of uniform! At first, Juliette had thought he looked very handsome in that black and red jacket, but more and more she saw how it resembled a spider's web - the lapels like the radials, the black swirls the sticky web filaments. She was never sure if he was the spider or the victim, trapped in the web. She had heard disturbing things about the actions of the Red Guard and was beginning to think she was better off associating only with the Musketeers, as Madame was fond of hinting.

He smiled and bowed and at once her resolve was lost. However bad he was becoming, she could not deny the connection she shared with him. It was like a bond. "Mam'selle Bonnard, it's good to see you ('tu') again. You can ride a horse?" He indicated the two horses behind him, one with a side saddle.

Juliette eyed them for a moment, where was he taking her? "A little, but it was some while ago. Where are we going? I'm not sure I should be going anywhere with you, after the way you have ignored me." She pointedly called him 'vous' and put her hands on her hips, as she'd seen Constance do. His face faltered and its usual confidence drained, "I am truly sorry about that. If you'll come with me I can explain. There's something I have to see, and I'd like to see it with you ('vous') first. I promise you will be safely back by the evening."

Juliette couldn't resist a mystery so she nodded and let him help her onto the horse. Riding through the streets of Paris with Georges, she felt almost like a noblewoman, as people made way for them. It was a strange feeling for the servant of a servant but she had a feeling that she must just act as if this was something she did regularly.  
"You owe me an explanation," she said at length as they left the noise of the busy streets for the relative quiet of the outlying villages. "We had agreed to be friends and yet you passed me by as if I were a stranger the other day. I suppose Feron was behind it, but he doesn't own you. I didn't ask Madame d'Artagnan if I could come out with you this afternoon."

Marcheaux sighed. His life had been so busy of late and Feron's scheming had required all his time. Grimaud was useful to the Governor's plans but he was unpredictable and violent beyond anything Marcheaux had seen before, from the jungle of the orphanage up to the way he and his men questioned prisoners. "I'm sorry - the truth is I am caught between two loyalties. I see now that I was wrong not to speak to you the other day. I didn't think you minded so much after I saw you at the Musketeers garrison talking to one of them. You looked happy enough."  
"You do not know my feelings, Georges Marcheaux. I may be only a servant, but I believed we were friends - you led me to believe you cared for me."  
"I hope we are still friends, I will try to be a better one in future - aren't you curious about where we are going?" He gathered his reins and moved his horse closer to Juliette's, it was larger and he didn't want her and Constance d'Artagnan to see each other. What was the sharp-eyed wildcat doing here? She seemed to be everywhere, wretched woman. He noticed the basket she was carrying and decided she was visiting a poor family. Trust her to be a do-gooder. He frowned slightly, Juliette would be just like that too, wouldn't she? Perhaps it was something common to women.

He explained about Feron's gift of the house, "I am anxious to see it, but it would be miserable to have to visit on my own. Feron says it needs some improving, so a female eye would be a help."  
"I'm glad you thought of me," Juliette replied simply, wondering why he would choose her. Perhaps he didn't know any other women well enough to ask, or he was simply going to exploit her servant's knowledge of the practicalities. The village was thinning out now and they were almost in open country. Marcheaux was eager to reach the house and suggested they ride faster. To her relief, Juliette found her horse simply followed its companion and broke into a slow canter. If she wasn't so unconfident in the saddle, she would have felt exhilarated. There was a wonderful freedom about riding a horse at speed. Marcheaux nodded appreciatively at her, "You're a natural horsewoman. We should ride out more often." She glowed and smiled back at him.


	13. Chapter 13

And suddenly there it was, shabby but undoubtedly pretty in the sunshine, and everywhere that wonderful scent of mid-summer. There were roses growing round the small porch at the doorway, and in the front garden there was lavender as well as more rose bushes. The gardens looked well-tended, thought Marcheaux, so the servants Feron had maintained did at least do some work.  
"It's beautiful!" exclaimed Juliette, " You will have to thank your employer for his kindness to you."  
Marcheaux gave a grim smile and helped her from the horse, "I'll wait until I've looked round it first. I thought you might like it when I learned the name: La Roseraie. It had to have flowers, I thought."  
"It is delightful. Governor Feron must think a lot of you to give you this."

They walked towards the front door and Marcheaux produced the key. "He has several properties and this won't be the largest by any means. In fact, I'm certain he no longer uses it, but it was a very generous gift, you're right." - _tu as raison_ , the familiar form again, it sounded almost intimate, she thought happily and was glad they were back to 'tu' with each other.

He had sent word that he would be arriving and the servants had prepared the house, opening the windows to let in air, beating the bed hangings and washing the metalwork. 

La Roseraie had not been a hunting lodge for some years but it still bore a rustic look with its thatch and timber-framed wattle walls. The hallway had dark panelling and there were deer antlers above some simple cloak hooks. To one side there was a staircase and on the other was a large reception room with a fireplace, seating, and an oak table for dining on which a vase of fresh flowers now stood. Juliette looked round; with a few touches, this could be a snug room. She fancied she might even embroider a picture for the panelled walls. Beyond was a kitchen area with a fireplace and a cooking pot. Upstairs there were two main bed chambers. The master room had a four poster bed with embroidered hangings, though otherwise it was not made up. It had probably not been slept in for a long time. There was a chest and an armoire for hanging clothes. Juliette ran to the window and looked out. There was a kitchen garden with herbs and a little fountain which didn't seem to be working. She could see a walled part, no doubt a secret garden, and many more rose bushes arranged formally with walkways. This was the real 'roseraie' she realised. 

She opened the window and inhaled the sweet scent of so many roses in bloom. If she had been asked to imagine a house for herself, this would be it, she thought. She shut her eyes and forced herself not to imagine herself as the mistress of La Roseraie. It belonged to the handsome man beside her who was no doubt wishing that instead he had a few rooms in the centre of Paris. She gave him a tentative smile and closed the window carefully. Moving to the other room, Juliette could look down on the two horses waiting patiently by the gate, and the modest front garden abundant with flowers. Beyond was the forest.  
"So should I be grateful or not?" Georges was standing beside her, taking in the view.  
"I can't think of any reason not to be. It's so beautiful and peaceful here. I assume you can't sell it while he lives. Will you visit it much or is it too far from the city for you?"  
"That would depend," he replied, "on who will come with me. I noticed a tavern nearby and the forest would be good for hunting - or riding. The lodge is a bit old fashioned, perhaps you have some ideas to brighten it up a bit."  
Juliette thought for a moment, "I'm not sure I'd change anything." she opened the door to a cupboard on the landing and bit her lip, thinking. "The bed linens seem to have been washed recently. They have obviously been preparing for your visit. I imagine you could send on your wishes if you wanted to have something cooked."

Downstairs, Juliette was exploring the chests and examining cutlery when there was a knock on the back door. The servants turned out to be a married couple from the village who managed the lodge. In recent months it had been locked up but even in his fitter days the Marquis de Feron rarely used it. The husband managed the gardens and equipment, and his wife organised the house. 

Having spoken to the housekeeper and her husband, Marcheaux carefully locked up. Juliette had wanted to explore the back garden but there was no time if she was to be back before nightfall. At the tavern they ate an early supper of game stew and bread, with plenty of good ale. Juliette realised she was hungry. It was the first time she had ever eaten in a tavern.

Why did Georges bring her here? He seemed to want nothing more than her opinion on possible improvements. The little house was so romantic, it would be such a wonderful setting for love. She thought with a stab of pain that perhaps he had another woman in mind for that? Maybe once she'd given her servant's opinion he would ignore her again.  
"I was sorry we didn't have time to walk in the gardens. I'd have liked to see the walled garden." she said evenly, avoiding his eyes.  
"Well next time you come, we can do that."  
"Unless you have someone else you want to bring here." She looked directly at him. His mysterious hazel eyes had depths she couldn't fathom, "There is no one else, Juliette."  
"You should call me Julie, all my family and close friends do, unless you dislike it. Georges, I need to know what you want from me. I loved the house, but if you simply want my opinion then please don't get my hopes up. Of course I would want to come again, but I don't wish to impose on you. I'm a very junior palace servant and you are a captain, answering only to the governor of Paris." Her voice trailed off. He sighed.  
"I know - it's why Feron told me to stop seeing you. I won't deny it - at first he wanted me to seduce you, so you would tell me palace secrets, but I did not do this out of my great respect for you. I have been torn between my - friendship - with you, and my loyalty to him. But you should know that I wish you only the best."

So that was it.... Feron was indeed as bad as Madame had told her, but at least Georges was not. He reached across and put his hand over hers.  
"We are friends still," she said sombrely, suddenly afraid for her heart. 

It was a warm evening and the moon had just come out when they set off for the city. With the difficult conversation behind her, Juliette found herself feeling cheerful and talkative. Perhaps that was the effect Georges had on her - almost from the first she had been given to speaking easily to him. He had never seemed to mind, even though he was never as open. She couldn't stop herself, there always seemed to much to say. 

"I'm glad you have a house," she remarked as they passed a row of near hovels at the side of the road, "It might not be what you would have chosen, but one day you might be glad of it."  
"It's something I've never had, a home." He remarked quietly. Juliette wanted to ask him what he meant but something inside her made her hold back. Georges never spoke of his life before the Red Guard. She wanted to ask him how he had met Feron - she'd always presumed he'd been interviewed for the job. One day he would tell her, but now was not the time. They rode for a while in silence, but it was the comfortable quiet of good companions. Juliette found herself enjoying the experience of riding a horse and with Georges beside her she felt safe and happy. 

At the Palace gates he dismounted and helped her off her horse. "Thank you for this afternoon." She said. In response he drew her to him and kissed her for a long, long time.


	14. Chapter 14

"I would like to take Saturday and Sunday to visit my family" Juliette told Constance, "I've done almost all of the mending, and there shouldn't be a lot to catch up on Monday."  
Constance wondered for a while. She had been expecting and dreading this, but she wasn't the girl's guardian. "That's a fine idea. I could get Jacques to drive you part of the way as he is going north."  
"Oh no need, Madame, I have a friend who will take me all the way there."

Constance stared for a moment.. That child wasn't going home but somewhere else, and she was fairly sure with whom. She'd seen them riding together on the St Germain road, although he had seen her and tried to hide Julie from her sight. Well, if she was already in a liaison with him, what could one do?  
"Well have a good rest, and take care of yourself," she said ominously. Juliette understood the tone of her voice. Madame was not fooled by her lie.

\----

She had been in a dream ever since seeing La Roseraie. It had been so perfect, so beautiful.... she kept telling herself that she could not ever hope to marry a man who had a place like that. Yet Georges had said he did not have anyone else, and he had wanted to visit it with her. What was she to think? With her he wasn't the bully that people spoke of. He was warm and sympathetic and good company. He had cared enough for her to ignore Feron's instructions. She shuddered - would she have let him seduce her? Would she have told him secrets? Probably not - she found him quite easy to read, she would have guessed his motives. 

And yet... and yet.... she wanted it really didn't she? It was all very well expecting women to be chaste, but they had yearnings too, just as men did, and she was pretty sure men weren't expected to be pure. Georges Marcheaux was the only man she'd ever wanted, and she was sure she would want no other, so it didn't matter if she gave herself to him', at least she would have the memories. He had made it clear that he was not going to do anything dishonourable, so _she_ would just have to seduce _him_.

She wasn't exactly sure what one did, but perhaps a meeting at La Roseraie, with a good meal, wine and soft candlelight should do it and then a weekend of bliss. She would invite herself to the lodge for the weekend, demurely suggesting a closer inspection of the house and gardens. She sat down to write a note, folded it and dripped some stolen wax onto the flap.

It was madness, but it seemed she wanted to be mad.


	15. Chapter 15

Juliette came home on Sunday evening with stars in her eyes. Constance noticed them at once and drew her aside. "You haven't been home, have you? I know that look, and it means trouble."  
"I - er...." Juliette mumbled. Her skin still glowed with the memory of Georges' touch. It seemed to surround her like a warm blanket. Constance sighed, hating what she would have to say next. "You should know by now what the Red Guard are like. Why do you think that prisoner ran into you the first time you met Marcheaux? He was terrified of what they would do to him. Marcheaux has no honour - why else would he be taking advantage of you? I can tell you spent the weekend with him. I owe it to your family as well as yourself to put a stop to this. If I catch you again spending time with him, or even contacting him, I will inform the Queen and you will be dismissed. You have a good life here, and her Majesty likes your work, and so do I. You must give up Marcheaux before he breaks your heart, Julie." 

Juliette looked at her and Constance saw that her eyes were still hazy with love. Briefly, she wondered if the Red Guard captain could have fallen for their sweet Julie, then put it out of her mind. Feron had probably told him to win her over as a means of spying on the Queen. She'd seen the lovers on the St Germain road, no doubt going to some sordid love nest provided by Feron.

"Surely what I do in my own time is my responsibility if it does not affect my work for you, Madame." Julie responded softly.  
"You are old enough, certainly, to make your own decisions, but with him you can't see the mistake you are making. In time, you'll get over it and there will be other young men who can make you far happier than he will." Constance suppressed the possibility that Juliette would find it harder now she'd given herself to Marcheaux. "I'm writing to let him know how things now stand." She added finally.

Julie bunched her shoulders and went to her quarters.

But Constance had decided to act. She arranged for Juliette to stay at Fontainebleau for a few days; the curtains needed some spot cleaning. And she would send a note to the Red Guard barracks.

\-----

Marcheaux re-read the note with rising anger. Who was this woman to interfere in their life so brutally? It was clear she had seen them riding together to La Roseraie, despite his best efforts. Their relationship was none of her business, provided Juliette did her work well, which he was sure she did. To think he'd once fancied the woman! d'Artagnan was welcome to her!  
"Something has happened to upset you, Georges," Feron's slow patrician tones interrupted his thoughts. Marcheaux hesitated for a moment, then tucked the note into his jacket. He couldn't face the humiliation of his boss reading it. "Nothing," he said unconvincingly.

It didn't take much for Feron to learn what was troubling his protégé. "Whatever her motive, she's right, Georges," he purred, "I told you to find yourself a woman with money; you don't even have to like her much, but she should have more to offer than this seamstress." Then seeing Marcheaux' bleak face, he added softly, "You can always take mistresses, perhaps eventually _la paysanne_ herself. Don't trouble yourself, you'll get over her." He thought for a moment then pushed some coins into Marcheaux' hand, "You see how I take care of you, Georges? Remember your eighteenth birthday? Pay them a visit, you'll soon be back to your old self. Meanwhile stay clear of the Palace."

\-----

Marcheaux sat on his bed in the barracks. He'd had the most wonderful two days of his life and now their two bosses were set on keeping them apart. He had even bought her a token, a delicate gold ring set with an aquamarine, clear as her own soul; he had planned to give it to her over dinner at a nice tavern he knew near the Palace. It was perhaps the most expensive thing he'd ever bought, but he wanted her to have something for herself. He had imagined her face brightening as she realised this. Ironically, the money for the expensive brothel would more than cover the cost of the ring. He glanced at the little box on his night stand - when would he have a chance to give it to her?

Perhaps it was all Feron's fault for giving him La Roseraie. He didn't want to go there now. The whole place would remind him of her. He'd never had a home of his own before, not a real one, and suddenly Julie had created one from that empty house, filling it with her laughter. He was a different person when he was with her - perhaps that's what Feron did not like. 

They had walked the paths of the rose garden and explored the walled garden where they had sat on the old swing seat. He had told her of life at the orphanage, bringing up memories he thought he'd buried forever. Julie had spoken of her longing for her mother, of the loneliness of having to run a household with little spare time for herself and certainly no money for treats. Her father was often unwell and his employer, the local land owner, worked his people hard and paid them little, barely enough to cover the rents he charged them. Her two older brothers had to work as labourers on local farms but with Juliette and a younger brother to feed there was never quite enough to go round. One day, Juliette's father had asked her if she minded him selling her mother's few pieces of simple jewellery to buy bread, and of course she did not. 

As they sat talking, Juliette had noticed the cross he always wore, it was metal with a large square ruby in the centre. It had been a gift from Feron. Juliette had never been close to anything as fine as that ruby and she had held it in her hand, gazing at it. Marcheaux found himself wanting to shower all kinds of good things on this sweet, intelligent and funny girl to make up for all that she had never been able to have. He had put his arm round her while she nestled against his shoulder, and together they had swung silently, enjoying the deep peace of the gardens and their quiet mutual understanding.

 

He put his hand in his jacket to take out Constance's note and destroy it before anyone could find it and as he moved he felt a slight constriction. Puzzled he reached into his other pocket and his fingers met something cold and damp. It was the white rose he'd picked up from the outhouse floor, now completely limp. He folded the letter round it and slid them into a book on his shelf. He had been wrong - love is not merely a lust of the blood that one can control and conquer at will. Before, he hadn't trusted his heart, his instincts, thinking that there must be many women who could captivate him as she had. When it comes to love, he realised, only the heart would know if his feelings were true. Logic and reason were no guide. Juliette had taught him all this, whether she knew it or not. The penniless maid from Auvers - could he ever deserve her?


	16. Chapter 16

Nobody at the Palace could say where Juliette Bonnard was. All anybody knew was that she'd left in a carriage with Madame d'Artagnan early one morning. She could be anywhere - in one of the other palaces or on some errand. Marcheaux had tried bribery but it did no good. Frustrated, he went back to the barracks, snarling in irritation at anyone who spoke to him. Grimaud, who was spending far too much time with Feron these days, was planning an attack on the Musketeers. They would very soon all be dead, he promised. Good, thought Marcheaux, let's start with d'Artagnan, make that scheming witch a widow.

Feron had gone with the King to visit the tombs of their forbears. Marcheaux had no doubt that despite the presence of Aramis, the King would fall by Feron's pearl-handled knife. He was in no mood to feel sorry for Louis, his sorrow was all for himself. Once the king was no more, he would be able to reach Juliette in the mayhem and together they could find some sanity. He wondered if she was able to work any of the embroidery she had planned for the lodge's main room. 

Just then one of his men rode up to him, "Captain, Governor Feron's dead...." Marcheaux could hear no more. So Feron's presentiment of his own death had come true! Feron... dead.... and Julie missing.... Calling to his men, he spurred his horse.

Silently he covered the king's half-brother with his cape, so that the governor's dead body might not be an object of curiosity. At least his pain was now over, no more agony, no more poppy drops. But who would really mourn for him except Marcheaux? The sight of Feron's noble, handsome face frozen in death filled him with both grief and anger. It wasn't supposed to end like this! who killed him then? Not Louis, not Aramis, not any of the men standing around; they were strangely sombre and sad. Grimaud!

Stifling a sob, he grasped his musket and started to run. 

" Feron is dead" he could hardly choke out the words.  
"I took no pleasure in it". Grimaud was impassive, cold as ice. Pull the trigger! every instinct shouted to Georges to do it. And then all the fight left him. Grimaud was all that was left, him and the preening Gaston. No amount of killing would bring back his patron and friend. He was alone, quite alone, the orphan from nowhere.


	17. Chapter 17

Feron was dead, Juliette had been taken to where he could not find her, and his heart was numb with pain. He thought of going to La Roseraie after the state funeral for Feron, but it was pointless without her there. Surely Juliette would have heard the news by now? Wouldn't she want to go to him? Thanks to Madame d'Artagnan, he had sat comfortless in that chilly cathedral, staring at the elaborate coffin draped in the French flag. He must mourn alone, the loneliest man in Paris. Why didn't Julie realise how much he needed her to be there, at his side? 

What was that passage in the Bible that he had heard once - "I will take their hearts of stone and give them hearts of flesh"? Well God might have done that a long time ago for some people no one now cared about, but his own heart was turning from flesh to stone. Where was God now? All God had to do was send Julie to him, to prove that there was goodness in this world after all.

While Paris seethed, Grimaud was plotting. Marcheaux no longer cared who would be king, Louis or Gaston - it was all the same to him. When two of the Musketeers brought three captured Spanish generals, it seemed logical to Marcheaux to give them a public hanging; show the crowd that killing Frenchmen will be severely punished, even as an act of war. And if a felon or two could be dispatched at the same time, then it would also serve to warn the public about exploiting the situation in Paris. Yes, he would do it, and show that even without a governor, Paris could be governed.

Julie had shown him that love need not make demands, that it has no conditions; that it just is. And now she was gone, what was there left for him? Whatever good she had given him was worthless if she also turned away. Why should he care, then, if three Spanish generals should die in cold blood? 

He brought forward the executions and made sure the prison yard was full of people, the desperate poor with so little in their lives that the sight of death might entertain them for a while. With four men standing before four nooses, he strutted up and down the gallows, working the crowd into a frenzy of hate. His final words reminded them that the Queen was Spanish and her loyalties questionable at a time when France was at war with Spain. A master stroke. 

For all his oratory, his words sounded hollow even to him: why did he do it, really? It was as if he were being controlled by a power outside himself in some kind of hideous puppet show. He could hear himself speaking and knew it to be lies. His whole life had been a lie in one sense, he had spoken and acted in whatever way had served him best, but at least while Feron lived it had meaning. Now there was nothing because life had no purpose. People were born cruel - 'take what you want because no one will give it to you'. For a brief while he believed there was more, but the world had played a cruel trick, it had deceived him into thinking he might have happiness. He would go along with the dreadful Grimaud because for Marcheaux, there was nowhere else to go.

Suddenly there was commotion and Musketeers were everywhere. A scroll was thrust into his hand. He read with disbelief the reprieve from Tréville; the people would not have their Spanish blood today. Retribution would have to wait. Why did it hurt so much? The three generals were led away but the thief at least would pay. A thief with a sudden gift of public speaking, complaining that Spanish killers were spared but he, a starving Frenchman who only took a loaf of bread, would die. Even now the desperate fool didn't see how Marcheaux was actually showing mercy. A quick and clean death against a lifetime of squalor, of whippings, of burning hunger. 

That young man should thank him for releasing him from the evils of poverty. His soul might even be spared the punishments in hell he would earn for whatever crimes he was to commit in the future. Or maybe there was no heaven and no hell. Feron had believed we make our own on this earth. Marcheaux' hand went briefly to the cross round his neck and his fingers grazed the coolness of the blood-red ruby. 

Now the crowd was boiling as the ginger-haired lad jumped from the scaffold, his hands still tied. One of the Musketeers seemed to be helping him. Marcheaux shrugged and made to turn away. If the whole city began to burn from lawlessness, he could not be blamed. 

Then he saw her. White-faced under a hooded cloak, Juliette, his Julie, stood watching him, her eyes dark with horror. Then she turned and vanished into the crowd. 

She didn't even try to reach him.


	18. Chapter 18

So the victim had become the spider. Watching the man she loved exulting at a public hanging had made her feel sick. Constance had been right about him, but how terrible to see it for herself. She would have forgiven him much, but then came the denunciation of their sweet Queen, who always had a kind word for even the lowliest servant. She was indeed Spanish, but had spent more of her life in France and no one seriously questioned her loyalty. Juliette doubted that Georges really did either, he was just trouncing her good name to whip up the crowd.

Then in his spider's web jacket, looking for all the world as if he were enjoying himself, Georges was prepared to let Espoir hang for a loaf of bread when his own men stole far more from the market every day. In fact, Juliette was only there because Madame had heard that d'Artagnan's cousin was to hang and she had hoped that Tréville might stop all the executions. The Musketeers had come in the nick of time.

\------

At Fontainebleau she hadn't enjoyed the view of the gardens, the drive and the fountains although these were as magnificent as any in France. Her work had not been necessary, but she dutifully checked for stains on the silk damask drapes and woven hangings and dabbed the few she found. No one would even notice. In the evening she had sat with her embroidery and dreamed of Georges. Twice she had tried to get word to him, but both times the servants had gone to Constance who had gently explained that bringing her here was for her own good. Then Madame had gone back to Paris, leaving Juliette imprisoned in this elegant cage. All the servants had been instructed not to take messages from her, and at least one seemed to suspect that she might be with child and treated her with condescending pity. As she sat sewing the picture for La Roseraie's main room, she half-hoped she was, it would be a wonderful thing to have made something so precious together. 

Then came the news of the governor's death. Juliette sensed Marcheaux' suffering, and it saddened her own heart. But at least Feron's death would free Georges to marry her. She knew that Feron disapproved of their friendship as much as Constance did, if for different reasons. She and Georges couldn't have just got married and then announced it to the world. The governor would have taken out his anger against them both. Georges would be sacked, lose all his income, and the two of them would have been forced to sell the lodge just to survive. Her small wage was not enough to provide for the two of them, and once the babies started to arrive, she would not be able to work at the Palace.

So she understood, without Georges being specific, that they would have to wait before they could wed. But what was to stop them now? She sent word to Madame begging to be allowed to see Marcheaux.

Constance read her letter and realised she could not refuse the silly child. Besides, it would be a test of Marcheaux' real feelings. If Julie was right, there was no reason to keep them apart - aside from her own distaste of the man. A good woman could be what he needed to change his life, though she couldn't see it happening. Still, one could hope. Julie would go to Paris to find Marcheaux, but she would not go alone.


	19. Chapter 19

He now knew without doubt that it was hatred he felt, real, pure and from the darkest depth of his soul. How ironic that once Feron was dead and he and Juliette were free to marry, that loathsome Musketeer whore should step in to destroy the happiness that should be theirs!

He could not forget that look Julie had given him in the prison yard, shock, dismay - total disillusionment. She would never look at him any other way again. Once lost a good opinion is never regained. And it was all the fault of that wildcat.

Well, at least he was now freed to ignore any feelings of compassion he might have for Grimaud's victims. He had little time to grieve for Feron before Grimaud started to make demands on him and his men but now his grief was turning to anger, and it was growing. He had lost Juliette's good opinion and there was nothing left but chaos. He would get rid of La Roseraie and everything it represented; a real home for the first time in his life. Instead, he would buy himself an apartment in the city centre where he could bring the Red Guards, their friends and women. Plenty of women. Feron was right, he should have been enjoying himself more. But that could wait.

 

He took the handbill to Grimaud. "Now the Queen is educating the people," he said, "teaching them to read. Her seal is on it. She's paying for it all."  
Grimaud looked at the carefully written leaflet explaining the alphabet, "It's perfect.... we now have a way to destroy her."  
Marcheaux thought for a moment about how sorry Juliette would be if the Queen were to fall, then put it out of his mind. Soon, very soon, he wouldn't think of _la paysanne_ any more. There would only be blackness where love had been and loose women vying for his bed. Why not? She thought so little of him now that he might as well do as he pleased. Did it please him though? Drinking, cards, women, brawling - he might develop a taste for them.

A new handbill began to appear, showing the Queen consorting with a lover, stoking the mood of the crowd which now turned against the Queen. Grimaud ordered the arrest of the person responsible for the original leaflets, blaming her for both. 

She was a refugee and the lover of one of the Musketeers, which meant she saw a lot of Madame d'Artagnan. Marcheaux' mind went into gear; here he could have his revenge.

Sylvie, tied to a post and in full view of the public was in his complete power. He hoped Madame was watching carefully - and if Julie was there too, it no longer mattered; she was lost to him. Standing on the platform, he faced the crowd sombrely, slowly crossing himself and speaking piously about treason. Who cared if it was all lies anyway? The important thing is that the people believed he was a loyal Frenchman, outraged at the attack on the Queen. He edged closer to Sylvie and whispered in her ear, "If you implicate Madame d'Artagnan, I can arrange for the strokes to be light."  
"You can never turn back if you do this," She replied, grimacing in pain from her tied hands.  
Turn back? No he had accepted that already. There was no turning back because there was nothing to go back to. All he had left was his rage and his hatred for Madame. This foolish girl, innocent of course, could save herself quite easily but she chose not to. She deserved it, then. He barked an order to increase the lashes.

If hell awaits, then one might as well be hellish.

Whip landing on bare flesh, a woman's cry of pain. For a moment he knew remorse, but he closed his ears and his mind. He hoped Constance was watching.


	20. Chapter 20

Athos galloped into the square with more of his men and the pantomime came to a swift end. Sylvie was cut loose and collapsed into Athos' arms. The Musketeer crouched on the platform and held her gently murmuring that he was here, it was all right now. Envy at their tenderness surged in Marcheaux and his hatred responded. They had spoiled his life, stolen the one good, lovely, decent thing that was ever in it, so now they would have their reward: his anger.

\-----

"He can't have known she was pregnant," Juliette said sadly, still refusing to believe that Georges had been capable of ordering an innocent woman to be flogged.  
"He wouldn't have cared, Julie." Constance put her arms around Juliette and cradled her, stroking her hair while she sobbed. "He would have, at one time - you didn't know him as I did. What have they done to him?"

Constance sighed, the poor deluded child was distraught and it was going to take time to get that man out of her heart. 

\------

Paris was seething, Grimaud was running wild with his feral cruelty, and into this mix came the news that the King was dead. His heir was a six-year old child, so there was all to play for in that late summer. Marcheaux recalled Feron's careful plotting to rescue Gaston from the Bastille and set him on the throne. Scores would be settled and rewards would be passed out to those loyal to the new regime. At least that's how it used to look.

To general surprise and the Queen's dismay, Louis' will appointed Captain Tréville as regent. Marcheaux received the news and went back to barracks to inform his men.  
"This can only be good for us," he told them "Tréville as regent will be different to Tréville of the Musketeers. He will need our help to stabilise Paris - he might even make us a special unit in the Musketeers. Be prepared for change."

Change either way - under a regent or with Gaston as king, there would be work for the Red Guard. Marcheaux began to feel as if his life might be worthwhile again. If he could work with Tréville, it might even be possible to reconcile with Juliette. He patted his jacket pocket. He'd put the ring there, meaning to return it to the jewellers but somehow he never seemed to be passing that way. Truth to tell, he wasn't ready to give it back. It symbolised his love for her. He had imagined giving it to her and seeing her face, flushed and joyful. Since she had spoken of her penniless childhood, he had wanted to give her something really special, just for herself.

And now he never would... unless..... he could make himself useful to Tréville. That would not be easy, but with Paris in turmoil, the royal forces would have need of him and his men. 

His mind went back to La Roseraie, Julie in the rose garden smiling playfully at him through the blooms; Julie asking him to make the fountain work, selecting flowers to cut for the house. Her hair, the colour of autumn leaves, spread out among the rumpled bedsheets. Julie pulling the sheet over them both and laughing "Now you're my prisoner, _Captain_...." and deciding what his punishment was. He closed his eyes and felt a stab of pain at the realisation that Juliette Bonnard was the only person he'd ever known who had truly cared for him. That kind of selfless love was something he had not known existed before he met her. Then he had seen it between Athos and that refugee girl and resented it because it was lost to him.

The Musketeers found Marcheaux in the Red Guards' tavern with some of his men and handed him a message with the thick seal of the regent. In disbelief Marcheaux read the instruction to disband his unit. No further orders would be sent. Just like that the Red Guard was no more. "We hoped you'd take it like a man, didn't we?" Smirked the one called Porthos. Juliette had once spoken about his humour and kindness, but he was showing no mercy now. "Hmm, we did, but then again we knew you wouldn't." agreed Aramis.

Nothing - not a word of thanks for all those years of service, no hint as to what his men could do next. Just a brief message delivered by his favourites. What did Tréville expect the Red Guard to do? Meekly accept the end of their world and go away? If Tréville had asked for a meeting they could have done something good together, but now this.... contemptuous, insulting message. It was more than Marcheaux could bear and with a roar he lunged at Porthos. His men, seeing his anger, drew their swords and rushed the Musketeers.

Porthos was street-smart, agile and powerful. Marcheaux' rage and grief blunted his accuracy and he was easily bested by the other man. Then came a shooting agony in his right arm, a feeling of nausea, and he knew his impetuosity had lost him the fight, but he didn't care; even with a dislocated shoulder, he tried to fight on. Then slumped at a table, he felt a rough pull on his head somewhere and fell from consciousness. 

There was now nowhere to go but Grimaud and he found him in his usual lair. Clutching his right arm Marcheaux told him what had happened to them. Grimaud, as contemptuous as Tréville, took his arm roughly and shoved it back into the socket. The pain made Marcheaux howl, but somewhere deep in his mind, he welcomed it. His body's pain blotted out the agony in his mind. It was easier to bear, because physical pain ends more quickly.

Grimaud wanted the Dauphin to be found, the mopping up would start at once in readiness for Gaston. So the little boy wouldn't see his next birthday .... at least he'd be spared the uncertainty, the sorrow of adulthood. And if the priests and old women were right, he'd go straight to heaven.


	21. Chapter 21

It had been easy to organise, surprisingly so, considering the flames towering into the sky. The barrels of gunpowder had been put into place while the Musketeers were at Tréville's funeral, and all that remained was to ignite the fuses, making sure everyone had returned. Job well done!

The heat was tremendous, no one could survive that, surely? For good measure, explosives were lobbed through the windows of Christophe's inn where Musketeers were toasting their fallen leader.

Grimaud, on the roof, watched in dismay as men staggered from the blazing Inn. He counted several he knew, but d'Artagnan wasn't with them. 

 

"Only d'Artagnan is dead" Grimaud met Marcheaux who was with a few of the old Red Guards. None of them now wore the uniform. Marcheaux couldn't find any reason to feel regret that they did not kill more. Madame was now a widow; that was all he cared about. "They are in no position to protect the Queen and her son from us, they have nothing." he conceded. "Besides, we have the rest of the gunpowder and Paris lies open to us, the spoils will be ours."  
Grimaud gave a hostile stare; Marcheaux wondered if this man would never stop until everyone was dead. "Have the men not done enough?" He reasoned, "Half of my men have already deserted me."  
" _Your_ men?" Grimaud's hands were around the younger man's neck and Marcheaux suddenly found it hard to breathe, pressed against the wall. 

Grimaud was not a good ally and Marcheaux knew he would be fortunate to escape with his life after all this was finished. Even now Georges would turn his back on the burning and the ruin of this great city - if only Juliette would appear and hold out her arms to him. But that wasn't going to happen, the wildcat had put a stop to his hopes. There was nothing left to him. 

The orphan from nowhere had returned to his roots; once again he had no home. There could be no going back to La Roseraie. That belonged to another time, when redemption was possible. Didn't that refugee woman tell him there was no going back? He might as well stay with Grimaud, face it out to the end, which would come at last when Grimaud pushed a knife into him, as he had done to Feron.

"One of the Musketeer women is a refugee, and she may well have gone to her old haunt now the garrison is gone," He mused, not really caring what he was saying.  
"Good thinking - for once." Grimaud sneered, then "What are you doing sitting there? Get on with it, we've got a goose to cook. Lure them out and kill them all!" He was already out of the door. Georges shrugged to himself; did it really matter if they died? He pictured Julie sorrowing at the news and tried to wipe it from his mind. Of course they must all die! Yet more pointless deaths in the scourge of Paris before that idle fop Gaston pranced through its gates.


	22. Chapter 22

She was there all right. Marcheaux looked out from an upper walkway and watched an old woman as she leaned towards Sylvie Bodaire. Did she still hurt from the brief flogging, he wondered? Feron had often required him to act brutally, but he'd never been asked to kill and certainly not as Grimaud killed, with so little provocation. The old woman patted Sylvie's belly. The two women smiled at each other. "Bring me the old woman!" Grimaud's voice broke Georges from his reverie. So, the old woman was doomed then. Why? For being a friend to the Musketeer woman? This was not what he had been trained for said a voice in his head. He shrugged it aside, if nothing matters, chaos will come. Bitterness, hatred and envy... in the end one just went numb.

Grimaud killed her himself. She was to be the message that would bring the rest of the Musketeers where they could be surrounded. A piece of Sylvie's clothing would have done, but it lacked the brutality of a corpse. Would Julie hear about this? Was she a friend of Sylvie? Georges closed his eyes and tried to block her from his mind. Why wouldn't she just leave him, let him just get on with his wretched life? What was it one of Tréville's men had once said to him, "Whatever death you have, it won't be honourable."?

He held the pistol to Sylvie's head while Grimaud uttered his threats. She was a strange girl, that one.  
"Why would you bring a child into the world?" Asked Grimaud with a look of disgust.  
"Don't you know?" She could not keep the joy out of her voice, then her tone turned to shock, "No, you don't - do you?"  
Holding the pistol steady, Marcheaux suddenly knew why. He focused his eyes at the back of her head so Grimaud should not see his expression, which would have given him away. Her long curled hair was lustrous - was this the effect of her condition? He wasn't going to shoot her. If it came to an order, he would shoot Grimaud instead. That tone of fulfilment, it could have come from Julie. For all he knew, she might be pregnant herself, after that weekend they had spent together. It was possible..... and he knew without any doubt that she would have responded in the same way as Sylvie: with joy. 

She might not be there any more, he might never see her again, but her love had not been for nothing. There are, after all, choices we have to make. He did not have to fall into the black tunnel of despair. Whatever Juliette might now think of him, he knew with certainty that she would never wish him ill.

His reverie was broken by the realisation that Sylvie wasn't going to die today. Incredibly, she was going to be rescued instead. Grimaud had taken a knife wound and run for his life, disappearing into the shabby street like the rat that he was. The cry went up, "Get Marcheaux!" and every instinct screamed at him to get away, although he hadn't harmed anyone. 

'This is all a mistake!' he wanted to cry out, 'I just want it all to stop!'. Feron was dead, his Red Guards were no more and Julie was lost to him. Why should he care about Grimaud's plans?

So many surprises and shocks - his pursuer was d'Artagnan, unharmed it seemed from the attack on the inn. So the wildcat was not a widow after all! He found himself not caring as he sped through the alleys seeking a hiding place. How could it have come to this? Feron's protégé reduced to fleeing like a hunted animal through the slums of the city he had vowed to protect. Finally cornered, he faced his attacker, noting the pure rage in the face of the young nobleman. Marcheaux wasn't fit, it had been a while since he'd done any training at all, and his right shoulder was tender from the dislocation, making it difficult to swing his rapier. D'Artagnan raised the chain, "This is for Sylvie!" He brought it heavily down onto the hapless Georges. Pain surged through him, he got up only to be knocked down again and again. He tasted his own blood and spat it out. He couldn't just give up, even though he had lost everything he had once held dear. He lunged at the Musketeer who parried and knocked him painfully onto a pile of wood. "That was for my cadets! - and this is from me!" the chain tore against the skin of his neck, and suddenly Marcheaux lost his balance and fell backwards.

He landed on the spikes of what looked like a giant carding device. Who would be preparing wool in this place? He had a vague memory of sunlight falling through a narrow window and a woman singing at her spinning wheel. She looked familiar. He would hand her a strand from the basket and she might give him a glass of warm milk. 

He raised his head and saw d'Artagnan looking unconcerned down at him. _I had only intended to give you a thrashing_ , he seemed to say, _but here it is, the dishonourable death you deserve_.


	23. Chapter 23

Juliette couldn't run as fast as Sylvie and she fell behind as they went back to the refuge for more supplies. All the injured had been taken to Christophe's inn, which had not been badly damaged. Constance was hurt, but not going to die. To be caught up in all this! Juliette had been given permission to attend Treville's funeral with her Musketeer friends, and now here she was, racing through the streets with Sylvie.

Entering the court, she slowed at the sight of mounted men with weapons. Red Guard? No, she didn't recognise the uniforms. An instinct told her to stay back and watch. There he was! She almost hadn't recognised him - Georges, standing on the platform looking over the crowd. It was strange, he wasn't wearing his black and red spider jacket. She found herself feeling disappointed, it had at least conferred authority on him and he looked good in it. He seemed to be wearing a new jacket in black leather with a dull broken stripe, jagged and uneven. His face was pale and his eyes dark. They would be brown, she thought. They were only green when he was happy or relaxed. He didn't look happy, oh, poor Georges!

He handed the old woman to the other man, the one everyone seemed to fear. This must be Grimaud! - all Paris was terrified of him. If she didn't know Georges so well, she'd assume he had joined this terrible man, but Georges' face was a mask of unhappiness. He had such an expressive face, even when he thought he was controlling it. Her heart felt like breaking. She shut her eyes while something horrible was happening - someone was being killed - but she was certain that Georges wasn't responsible. That Grimaud must have a hold over him of some kind. There Georges was, holding a pistol to Sylvie's head. The blank expression on his face frightened her - might he be prepared to kill Sylvie? Just them his hand trembled and he blinked, as if remembering something. Of course he couldn't kill anyone in cold blood! He was still her Georges after all! 

What followed was like something in a dream. Men poured into the square and a fight broke out. A cry went up, "Get Marcheaux!" and at once Georges turned to flee. D'Artagnan, who was closer to her, braced himself for the chase and Juliette found herself following him. Whatever happened, she must not lose sight of him, there may be a chance to save the situation. She had found Sylvie hard to keep up with, but d'Artagnan was slowed up by the narrow alleyways. At one point, she caught a glimpse of Georges' back as he ran like a hunted hare. The new jacket looked thicker than the spider one, she hoped it was better padded. 

Her shoes weren't designed for running over cobbles, but she ignored the pain in her feet and ran on. She had to do something! Her feet were now feeling numb, and d'Artagnan rounded a corner... she was in danger of losing them altogether, except that she could hear noises, she followed them into the square. Standing back, she watched the angry Musketeer draw his sword, "You can no longer hide behind Grimaud, or Feron!" he cried and metal crashed against metal. Juliette froze, terrified. Her heart seemed to be hammering in time with the sword thrusts. It was not possible to break this up, they wouldn't see or hear her until it was too late. She would die trying to stop the men from killing each other, but they would do it anyway. Georges went down and d'Artagnan was beating him with a thick chain. Georges cried out each time like a wounded animal, a strange, throaty cry. He staggered, desperately trying to find some way of getting past the blows, but the Musketeer was too good for him.

Juliette watched as the fight drew to a close. It seemed to happen in slow motion, d'Artagnan felling Georges who rose painfully and made a pitiful but brave attempt at fighting back, then suddenly he lost his footing and fell backwards onto some spiked implement. His head lifted for a moment, and a strange expression crossed his face, then he fell back motionless.  
"That's one more rat off the streets," muttered a man near to her. His companions seemed to agree. 

D'Artagnan looked scornfully down at his victim and walked away. No one seemed to know what to do with the body of Georges Marcheaux. No longer afraid, Juliette ran forward and knelt by the white face, suddenly overcome with grief. Whatever he had become, he had once been dearer to her than life.  
"No! don't leave me!" she cried, reaching for his gloved hand and clutching it. She bent over him and sobbed, moaning his name over and over again. All she could think was that the one person she had loved above all others was lying before her and she was helpless. The blood on his neck had seeped down under the collar of his new jacket and was almost dry. He would soon be cold and stiff; they would lay him under the heavy earth in an unvisited corner of some graveyard and eventually she would forget his face. His skin had been warm against her, she had laid her head against his heart to feel it beating. Now it had stopped and would never beat again. She would grow old and forgetful and die alone and loveless. Her tears were not only for herself though. She thought of the home she had longed to make for him and now never would.

"Don't lie on him like that," cautioned a voice from above, "you'll push him onto them spikes. He's in a bad enough way as it is."  
Juliette raised her head quizzically at the onlooker. "It makes no difference now."  
"Well it might, seeing he just moved."  
Juliette flinched backwards and gently tapped Georges' cheek, "It's Julie, please say you're alive!" she gasped urgently, afraid it was all for nothing. He felt so cold.

A hand came down and fingers pressed against the side of Georges' neck. "This is how you can tell if someone is alive. There is a very slight pulse. If you want him to live, I suggest you have him lifted carefully off that thing." Aramis looked down at her, his face a mask. Juliette felt a rush of relief and gratitude.  
"Please say you will help me. We need a cart to carry him...."

Strong arms came to help. Juliette's tears were now a mixture of relief and frantic worry, she was still afraid for Georges. His new jacket had toughened leather, a street fighter's protection, and he didn't weigh enough to have impaled himself. The spikes had barely grazed him, but his injuries from his fight with d'Artagnan were severe.

"Take him to Christophe's inn," ordered Aramis.


	24. Chapter 24

Marcheaux was aware of someone crying very close to him, but he couldn't open his mouth to speak. Falling out of consciousness his last thought was that Julie had come back to him. _Please, please find the little box in my pocket_..... but the words didn't come. He felt wetness on his cheeks but this time it wasn't blood but tears, hers, and still he couldn't speak. _The box, the box_..... he hadn't managed to return it to the jeweller. She must have it; Julie, the only good, decent thing ever to come into his life.... his mind floated away and again he saw the sweet face at the spinning wheel. She had been good as well. Two women in his life who had loved him just because he was. _Please God, if you are there, let me live long enough to tell her_.... and again he was in the sunlit walled garden, a rose in his hand, gently waving it under her nose and smiling as she inhaled the scent...

Feron had been wrong. 

You don't take something unless someone gives it to you.

\-----

His eyes opened and he realised he was still alive. He was in a room full of other people, serious voices round him. Other wounded people? Oh, the explosives.... Grimaud! Where was Grimaud?  
"Georges?" a soft voice he thought he'd never hear again, and, miraculously, there was her face gazing lovingly at him.  
"Pocket" his arms were outside the blanket; he tried to move one. She looked puzzled.  
"In pocket." He lifted his hand and it slapped against his chest. "Oh, your jacket." Juliette turned away and began to search the jacket which was over the back of her chair. She turned back, holding the little box. "This?"  
He nodded, "For you," The effort caused him to close his eyes. The silence was too long, he opened his eyes again. Juliette was sitting, just staring into the open box. Tears glittered in her eyes like diamonds.  
"For me?"  
He nodded and tried to move, but it hurt and he winced. "I love you," He whispered, wondering why she still didn't say anything. Perhaps she didn't like the ring.  
"For me?" she was incredulous, blinking away her tears. Her dark eyes looked huge. He nodded again. "I bought it for you. Then I thought you didn't want me. I was going to take it back, but I couldn't bear the thought of .... losing you." he broke off, exhausted.  
She was gazing at her hand, moving it gently from side to side, to catch the light. "It's beautiful. I love it. It's much, much better than anything the Queen has." Laughter caught her voice and she sparkled like the stone on her hand. There was that half-mischievous manner that had made him fall in love with her. "Don't leave me again," he whispered.  
"I promise I won't. As soon as you're well enough we are going back to La Roseraie and I will look after you. I don't care if I lose my job, I'm not going to lose you again. I thought you had died and all I wanted was to die and be with you."

She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it gently. "I suppose we will just starve together, but at least we won't be apart ever again."  
"We won't - I have.... savings.... we can live. Feron left me...." he fell back into the pillow. She was right, they would need some kind of income and the Red Guard was no more. Even his savings would eventually run out. Feron had left him something, but he'd still have to provide for her and any children they might have. He remembered Sylvie's voice as she asked Grimaud if he understood why she wanted a family. Marcheaux hadn't seen her face but he'd imagined it. It had been at that moment that he'd experienced a clarity he'd not sensed before. Some things were right and others weren't.  
"Marry me," he murmured, wondering if she was still there. He felt his hand being squeezed but no reply. "I will try to give you what you deserve." He added.  
"Of course I will marry you.... whatever anyone else says. I can take in mending, there will be a way."  
"You - will - not..... Madame Marcheaux will not......"


	25. Chapter 25

She liked to sit among the roses when the weather was good. Her tread was heavier now, but she refused to give in to anxiety. She was prepared for the things she could expect; it was the unexpected she didn't care to think about.

La Roseraie was at its best in early summer. Roses bloomed until the colder weather set in, thanks to the careful planting, but that first bloom was the best. Juliette thought back to last year, when she had first seen the house with Georges. She had been afraid that he only wanted her servant's eye. She smiled, knowing now that he was unsure how to court her. He had needed her to make that first move, which led to the blissful weekend they had spent there. Of course it had not been enough, her freedom was always limited. She had gone on Saturday morning and been back at the Palace by Sunday evening. They had one night together, although the big bed had drawn them in much of the rest of the time. She smiled to herself that far from abandoning her, as Constance had warned, he had gone to buy her a ring almost as soon as they had parted. It was the most expensive thing he'd ever bought.

She looked down at her hand, the fourth finger now wore two rings. Madame Marcheaux! They had returned to this house after their marriage where she had made good on her promise to care for him., With the benefit of youth and underlying robustness, Georges had regained his health quite quickly. Juliette, used to caring for her father and three brothers, was experienced at cooking and running a household. So she ran La Roseraie, but with help from the couple Feron had engaged.

Juliette had meant on this warm June day to collect some roses to decorate the house, but she felt sleepy and made her way to the swing in the walled garden. She and Georges had put some more benches in the gardens, but she liked the swing particularly and she imagined that her growing baby must like it too.

She was dozing peacefully, but feeling guilty, because Madame Bouchet would be along shortly and needed to be given her task for the day. Juliette wanted the panelling dusted. The tapestry she had started at Fontainebleau was finally finished and of course Georges must see it against gleaming wood. Assuming nothing unexpected happened, against which she could not plan. She left a lighted candle in the little village church each week after Mass, and hoped and wished that he would be safe.

A noise at the gate caused her to stir from her drowsiness. Half-awake she saw a dark figure, tall and broad. Not her husband... not bad news, she hoped....

A gentle chuckle, "I was hoping for a greeting, and maybe even some thanks, Madame Marcheaux."  
" _Porthos?!_ " She sat up and seeing his lazy smile, beamed back at him.  
"Where is he?" She grinned impishly at the general.  
Georges stepped out from behind his commander. He was still in his uniform. His eyes were shining and he looked for all the world as if he'd just come in from a stroll.  
"Porthos, I am so grateful...." Juliette eased herself from the bench swing and moved towards him, "you have brought him home to me in one piece!"  
"Well, mostly. The odd scratch, but that's soldiering for you...."  
" It's so good to see you. You will come in for a drink, and a slice of cake at least..."  
"Sorry, but I must get back to Elodie. Another day..."  
"Of course... bring her to visit me soon." Juliette and the general's wife had become good friends.

It was strange being alone together after months of separation. Georges looked well, however, and had grown broader.  
"So how is army life?"  
Georges gave an impatient shrug. "It's a living," he said, taking her into his arms. Suddenly Juliette found herself being swung off the ground and realised that Georges had picked her up and was carrying her towards the back door. He crossed the yard briskly, scattering the few chickens who clustered round the well, looking for seed. "What - are - you doing?" she asked.  
"Well all that training has improved my strength, so I thought I'd show you...." He said with a hint of a swagger. He might have been back in his old spider jacket she thought indulgently.  
"... and I realised that I never carried my bride across the threshold!" he stepped into the house and gently set her down. She opened her mouth to tell him about her finished embroidery, about all the things she'd done to make the house more cosy, but all she could say was "Welcome home!"

Georges Marcheaux stopped for a moment and registered this. His green eyes looked at her with a new expression, of joy mingled with hope... and something else as well,  
"Yes, finally, I have come home. At last." 

The orphan from nowhere was home.

He took both her hands in his and laughed contentedly.

**Author's Note:**

> Juliette's name is pronounced in the French way, with the soft 'J' which sounds like 'zh' - likewise, Georges.
> 
> Juliette and Georges' first child was a boy and they named him Philippe, after Governor Feron.
> 
> In the army, Georges distinguished himself by acts of courage but it was felt he didn't have the leadership skills for a typical career. Porthos, impressed by his intelligence and quick thinking, made him an aide, chiefly responsible for conveying information to and from Paris, often at some risk.


End file.
